


Watching

by Tiriel_35 (Fritiriel)



Series: Regarding Hobbits [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Candles, Gift Fic, Gift Giving and Receiving, M/M, NSFW Art, Tol Eressëa, Treen, Voyeur Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8110132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/Tiriel_35
Summary: Frodo turns a half-serious threat into a promise
It would be against accepted Hobbit custom for him to actually receive a gift, of course, but thanks to Sam’s inventive mind, Frodo is not at all averse to receiving. Quite the opposite, in fact...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hildigard_brown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hildigard_brown/gifts).



> Happy Very Late Birthday, dear!

The whole thing begins on an evening of late Afterlithe. It has been one of those unseasonably wet and chilly days that make a fire most welcome no matter what the calendar may say.

Sam is making up the fire, though his mind is clearly elsewhere. While adding further logs to those now burning low, he seems to weigh each one in his hands before releasing it.

‘Sycamore, I reckon…’ he says, almost to himself. ‘Best for kitchenware for good reason, after all.’ 

‘Hm?’ Frodo is reading and unsure if Sam even means him to hear.

‘For a carving, me dear—naught for you to worrit yourself about.’

‘Ah.’ Frodo knows the new project will doubtless share itself over the next days or weeks as they sit by the fire on just such another inclement evening, or out on the doorstep with its fine view over the downs toward the sea—a favourite spot when the weather is kind. Sam will show it to him eventually. He always does. 

In this case, however, he does not.

As the days pass and Frodo still has not managed the smallest glimpse of the piece, he is uncertain at first whether it is pure coincidence that he seems to work on it only when Frodo himself is too engrossed to spare an eye to what the knife is shaping, or if Sam _is_ actually being mysterious. He seems equally careful not to reveal it whether indoors or out, and is quite happy to remain outside even when the wind among his papers sends Frodo seeking sanctuary indoors. 

Frodo begins to wonder.

Wedmath evenings start to draw in and Sam does indeed bring both work and tools to the hearthside, but not until Frodo is already absorbed in his reading or perhaps busy writing letters. Before they retire for the night the thing, whatever it is, is once again carefully swaddled in clean rags and tidied away so completely that even Frodo’s most dedicated search cannot discover it. This is not something Sam is wont to do.

Considering that the twenty-second is fast approaching, and he can think of no-one to whom Sam may owe any such carving, Frodo’s speculation turns to thoughts of his birthday. 

It would be against accepted Hobbit custom for him to actually _receive_ a gift of course, but thanks to Sam’s inventive mind, Frodo is not at all averse to receiving. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

All Sam’s secrecy would seem to ague that, tradition or not, the unknown object really is intended for Frodo. The thought naturally makes him all the more eager for a peep. Which Sam, _of course_ , realises, and is correspondingly more careful than ever not to reveal the merest hint in passing. 

From the odd, unintended glimpse at the very corner of his eye—caught in the early stages, before Frodo’s need to know really struck in—Sam seemed almost to be paring his chosen piece of sycamore, like peeling an apple. It has to have changed quite a bit since then, given the amount of time Sam is putting into it, but Frodo still cannot make out what he is up to.

Usually when he is engaged in a carving, Sam occupies the hearthrug, sitting cross-legged to catch the best of light from fire and lamp but also turned a little toward Frodo—though to be sure when they’re both engrossed with whatever, their conversation tends to be somewhat desultory. Now, however, Sam makes sure to sit a little forward, one shoulder half-hunched over his work. Obviously there is no revolution of the ongoing piece between his toes for this—sadly enough. Frodo is still terrifically susceptible to the masterful nature of those toes.

He realises he is dealing with Secretive Sam, who makes an appearance but rarely and is then invincible in his ability to deflect and conceal. At his most devious Frodo can never quite outwit Sam’s secrecy skills—honed practically from birth, Frodo suspects, amid a gossip of inquisitive sisters. There has never been a single Astron yet, for example, when Frodo has managed to discover his gift from Samwise in advance.

With this piece, it seems far worse. Even if he waits until Sam seems wholly wrapped up in his work, Frodo’s sly little peeps—between bouts of deeply feigned interest in his reading—gain him little. Sam knows him all too well. 

Not until the item approaches its finishing stages can Frodo put together the minimal results of his peeping. Half-swathed as ever in its shelter of rag, the most he can gather is that it may be longish and is probably roundish, with one flattish end—this he did catch a glimpse of, though it didn’t tell him much—and, rags aside, it seems to sit comfortably within Sam’s palm. None of which really helps at all.

It could be a new dibber, he supposes—it seems a bit on the hefty side, but from the shape it _might_ be. Sam hasn’t mentioned that the old one failed, however, and anyway why would Sam go to such lengths to conceal a new _dibber_? 

He could ask, of course. Sam might even tell him, though Frodo doubts it. And anyway that is no longer the point. By this time, Frodo _needs_ to find out for himself. Several long-undisturbed shelves and cupboards are now dust- and spider-free to prove it—and also to no avail.

Sam is more irritatingly secretive than ever as he wields successively finer grades of sandpaper. He holds the thing close and plies each sheet with love and care. Judging from the number of discards, Sam is clearly intent on a superlative finish to whatever he is making. Frodo cannot remember the last time he lavished so much care in the final stages—which, with Sam, is really saying something. 

Nor can he remember the last time Sam seemed so fidgety when putting the finishing touches to a piece—squirming in his chair and often wrapping up the work before Frodo is really ready to retire. Still, he makes their evening cocoa as usual, and seems even more enthusiastically loving than ever when finally they get into bed.

As The Birthday draws ever nearer, the piece is obviously finished at last and Sam has somehow set it well beyond Frodo’s finding no matter how diligent his efforts. He admits defeat and turns his attention to their party. 

It is a big event, after all, celebrating Bilbo’s Birthday as well as Frodo’s own. It takes organisation (and much cooking) for it to snow food and rain drink through several meals. Even a dozen guests can demolish the contents of a full pantry quite handily, when three of those present are hobbits. Frodo has always appreciated that New End, like its predecessor, is blessed with more than one of these—thus ensuring a hearty breakfast on the morning after.

Most of his gifts are here for elven friends. Native trees here produce an almost apple, a not-quite damson, a very-nearly pear, a just-about apricot and practically a peach, and Sam, of course, brought with him seeds, plants and slips of many kinds, including several different soft fruits from the garden at Bag End. Any of these—made into jams and jellies or steeped to perfection in one of the various delicately potent spirits in which several local elves specialise—make agreeable gifts. A few hours in the kitchen plus a selection of fancy pots, and Frodo has quite a range to give.

Of late, Bilbo has admitted to a trifle of stiffness in the joints and just a _little_ more difficulty in getting about as fast as he would like. For him there is a fine new walking stave, its handle in the shape of a ram’s horn and finely polished. The stem was cut from the hazel brake by Frodo on one of his and Sam’s rambles a year and more ago, the whole thing his idea but curved, carved and completed by Sam during the chill evenings of last spring—a labour of love whose making Sam had, in that instance, freely shared.

Naturally, such fine craftsmanship had required ample reward, but Frodo knows Sam was well content with what he received in exchange. Transitory, perhaps, but satisfying in the extreme.

Needless to say, only a full pouch of leaf will suffice for Gandalf’s gift—as near to Old Toby as Sam’s cross-breeding of the slips he brought can make it, as yet. Frodo’s part was in the drying and curing. The process has much in common with the smoking of hams and flitches of bacon—not a skill much practised here until hungry hobbits brought Shire practice to bear upon the lack. 

Sam is clearly puzzled by the gift he receives. Yes, a trowel is highly practical—this one a sturdy example of elvish smith-work—yet Frodo knows quite well that Sam brought his old one with him from Bag End. Its handle is tightly bound with twine to prolong its life, and Sam will not dream of using any other until it sadly falls to pieces at last. 

In a room filled with guests, Frodo cannot explain the ruse, his true gift not exactly something he can wrap up— _or_ bestow in company. _Eru forfend!_

He is still not entirely sure he can do it for Sam alone. 

He wonders again if he ought not to have given Sam something more… 

Something less…

Something, in fact, that will not forever heat Frodo’s face with blushes when he recalls this night.

Once the guests are gone, and most of the last meal cleared away, Sam turns to him with a grin. ‘So,’ he says, ‘a new trowel?’

Frodo tries for casual. ‘You _may_ need it, one of these days,’ he points out. 

But Sam has figured it out already. ‘I can think of things I need more,’ he says, taking Frodo’s hand to lead him toward their bedroom. ‘Maybe something candle-related…?’

He pushes open the door and halts. Behind him, Frodo’s face instantly heats up. He knows exactly what has stopped Sam in mid stride.

Earlier, well aware of what would likely happen if they stayed in the same room to don their best clothes—imminently-expected guests or no—Frodo had sent him to dress first. Only when he was safely alone, with Sam clad already in the dark green coat that sparks such golden glints into his eyes and hair, and busy attending to last minute demands in the kitchen, did Frodo hastily change. Good shirt and trousers with his best figured-brocade waistcoat, topped for the occasion with the blue velvet jacket Sam has always loved. 

Finally, he burrowed in the wardrobe for what he had hidden there himself, especially for this day. He arranged it carefully on the nightstand beside the usual, innocent bedroom candle for lighting and the useful flask of oil they keep in the cupboard below.

Thus, Sam is confronted here by a broader and sturdier candle, creamy white against the green cloth in which it had been wrapped. For far too long a time, its ilk had been Frodo’s replacements for the real thing. Substantial enough in themselves, perhaps, he knows them but lean surrogates for what he has now.

‘I was _hoping_ ,’ Sam says slowly, ‘but I didn’t really think you’d…. It looks to be a bit on the skinny side though, if you don’t mind me saying so!’ He pokes it, his expression all indignation, his eyes crinkled in a smile.

‘It was no easy feat, getting Pharinel to make one even _that_ thick for me again, when the elves use only the slender, tapering kind!’ Frodo retorts, carefully shedding his jacket to hang it in the wardrobe. 

When he turns, Sam’s brows are raised and he’s choking back a laugh. ‘And you would know this, _how_?’

‘For _lighting_ , I mean,’ Frodo says with dignity. ‘I have no idea what the elves use for…I mean, I don’t even know if they…’

Sam’s amusement has expanded to a full-blown belly laugh—something Frodo has never been able to resist. He is still chortling when Sam sobers enough to rummage through the rarely opened drawer in which they keep unwanted presents of the inedible kind, for re-gifting wherever possible—and the very first place Frodo had thought to look, _weeks_ ago. Crafty Sam!

Sam too has been hiding a cloth-wrapped bundle, this one in blue. He presents it with a flourish and a grin. 

‘A present for _me_?’ 

‘Aye. I know it’s a bit against custom—but it’s as much for me as for you, in its way!’ 

From the length and cylindrical shape now resting in his hands at last, Frodo begins to suspect what it may be. He folds back the fabric to see what Sam has been working on so secretly—and yes, he blushes. ‘Sam!’ he says—half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

‘Tailor made, as it were,’ Sam says blandly, ‘though I didn’t need no measuring tape…’

Now Frodo does laugh. ‘But,’ he begins, and stops. The wood is pale—sycamore, he remembers—lightly oiled and silky smooth. He knows better than to believe Sam would ever put him at the slightest risk of splinters, and never in so sensitive an area. He slides careful fingers along the length, traces each generous bulge and following fall. His face heats even further.

‘I kept thinking about what you said, see—’ 

—what Frodo had threatened from sheer frustration, that one time Sam made him watch their love-making in front of the mirror—

‘—and I reckoned a candle may be all very well in its way, but something with a bit more _to_ it, as you might say, ought to be a lot more fun!’ 

Frodo sets Sam’s gift down beside the elven candle—the smooth, even length set alongside all those enticing dips and bumps—and can only agree. 

The time has come to make good on the vow he made to himself—that he would give this to Sam if he possibly could—and Frodo is beginning to feel nervous. Ridiculously so, when he thinks of some of the things he and Sam have done together. _Together_ being the important distinction. A solo effort is completely different—the mere shadow of reality that Frodo truly needed in the long years before Sam followed him here, and needs no longer. 

Except, he has pledged this as Sam’s true gift for his birthday. If he changes his mind and backs out, not only will Sam be disappointed but Frodo will be no better than a milksop—in his own eyes, if not in Sam’s. One resolute breath and he quickly sheds his remaining clothes and sinks onto their bed.

Sam draws up the bedside chair for the best and clearest view without being close enough to actually touch. He doesn’t intend to miss a moment of this. 

Frodo swallows and lies down flat, hands sliding over his chest to stroke and tease each nipple in turn. However shy he may feel, his body is eager for this—probably anticipating the rough-smooth pass of Sam’s hands. Still, knowing that Sam is eagerly watching somehow adds a keener edge to the effect his own smoother fingers have on him. Each little nubbin instantly perks up, sparking his desire as readily as ever.

‘Like—like this?’ he asks, voice a little gruff from sheer nervousness.

‘You don't need to put on a show, love. Do whatever feels good to you. Try and forget I’m here, and do it like you did when you were all alone here. Close your eyes if it’s easier that way.’

Frodo nods, letting his eyelids fall shut and sliding a hand down his front. His fingers play along the line of fine hair till they meet the thicker patch—and halt right there. 

‘It’s just... I've never _done_ this in front of anyone else before!’ It is almost a wail, eyes snapping open, turning to meet Sam’s.

‘I should hope not!’ says Sam, his scandalised look turning to a grin before becoming serious. ‘You don’t _have_ to do it at all, if you really don’t—’ 

‘I want to, I _do_! Just…just give me a moment.’

‘All the time in the world, love.’ Sam folds his arms, face serene as if he really could wait for ever for Frodo to stop dithering and get on with it. A last peek before he closes his eyes again tells Frodo that the little he has managed so far is already having its effect on Sam. He is breathing faster, his eyes already darkened by desire, bottom lip plump and red from his biting. 

Determinedly Frodo reaches down and palms himself—a simple press and circle to begin with, hips rising slightly to meet his hand. This is better. This, he can do—especially when a faint, rhythmic squeak from the bedside chair tells him that Sam may not be doing this with him but he is certainly _with_ him, and watching very closely, too.

Frodo’s need sharpens suddenly from _press_ to _hold_ , and friction becomes an issue much sooner than he expected. He opens his eyes and reaches for the flask of oil—just a drop or three, for now. The slip-slide is wonderful as he works himself more freely. 

He peers over at Sam and realises he is still in shirt and breeches, one hand pushing firmly at the front flap. ‘You could…join in a little,’ he suggests.

‘Oh, I shall,’ says Sam, his hand clearly clamped down tight, ‘but not yet. We’re nowhere near the good bit, yet!’ He turns his gaze pointedly to the nightstand and raises one brow toward Frodo.

Fiery heat rushes back into Frodo’s face but he meets Sam's eyes steadily enough, reaching for the oil again. ‘Would you…?’

Sam takes out the stopper and pours a small pool into his free hand, resting it on the bed. Frodo dips his fingers, a deliberate swirl and tease around Sam’s palm that makes Sam shiver and Frodo grin.

It is less daunting now to pull up his knees and splay his thighs wide. He even wriggles round so Sam has a better view, though he has to close his eyes to do it. Careful not to lose any of the oil, he slips his fingers down and down, letting the drips fall exactly where he needs them. 

At once the chair’s insistent squeak has less of rhythm and more of squirm about it, as Frodo’s fingers circle a few times before one pushes inward. He hears Sam’s gasp in time with his own. 

He eases the finger in and out and his gasp becomes a moan. His other hand is working faster, moan constricting to a whimper when he adds a second—knuckles catching at his rim with each curl of wrist as he steadily opens himself pink and wide. He can’t help the needy little noises that escape him.

‘You are so much better at this, Sam,’ he pants. Usually Sam does the stretching for him, and he for Sam. ‘Your fingers are broad and thick and—’ He breaks off with a groan. ‘Wouldn’t you rather—?’

‘No!’ Sam says quickly, his voice hoarse. Frodo can tell he’s almost ready to say, ‘Yes!’ and ‘Now!’ and forget this whole thing in favour of—but Sam clears his throat, heaves a deep breath and tries again. ‘No,’ he repeats, a little more calmly. ‘This is _my_ present and I want what was offered, Frodo—all of it! _Please_?’ Rightful demand wanes to a choked entreaty as Frodo breaches himself with a third.

Fingers slipping easily through warm satin skin. Frodo gently probes, his whole body taut when he finds what he's looking for and the pleasure races through him on a sharply echoed hitch of breath. The waves of sensation slowly fade and Frodo needs more—though not yet the more he has come to know and treasure. 

Time for Sam’s gift. Frodo reaches it from the nightstand, blinks at the broader end, and holds the other out to Sam.

He realises he must have lost a moment or two somewhere, for Sam’s breeches are all unbuttoned now, one slick hand clasped tight around himself, moving to the continuing rhythm of Frodo’s own hips.

Sam lets go half-reluctantly, and accepts the charge, spreading a first coat of oil evenly over each generous inch, then adding more and even more until each one of those tantalising bumps dangles its own warmly golden bead. He hands it to Frodo with a deft twirl that ensures not a droplet falls to waste.

Frodo takes it from him, guiding it carefully downward with a half turn or two—he will need every drop Sam applied for this. The rounded end feels cool and slick as he circles it against himself a few times—not flesh warm, as he is used to these days, and yet… 

He pushes lightly and the loosened furl expands a little more. He draws back—free oil drizzling helpfully downward—pushes forward again and again, more insistently each time until at last he is fully breached. Like and yet unlike what he has known before.

His shyness has dwindled almost to naught, drowned in the dual incentives of heavy, panting breaths so close at hand and his body so eager to receive this gift of his Sam’s careful making.

He bears down, tilting his hips to take in more—tender skin stretching and flexing over each separate rise and fall—a series of gradual thrusts that drive a huff of air from Frodo's lungs with every one. The sensation is both weird and wonderful and when his gift is fully home, Frodo is not the only one to let out a strangled moan.

‘All through the carving of it,’ Sam says, voice husky now and barely heard over the liquid squelch of his busy hands, ‘every up and down I cut and curved—I imagined what they’d feel like sliding in, how they would shove or stroke or let up on that place inside… and when you pulled it out, how your skin would cling to it, all pink and puffy, not wanting to let go…’  
Frodo can take a hint. Somehow, the sequence of flex and rise feels different in reverse. Different but just as breathtaking, just as good—even the reluctant cling that Sam imagined.

It is almost halfway out of him when Frodo suddenly grins, takes his hand away and parts his thighs even wider. A quick internal clench and release, and it waggles cheekily up at Sam, Frodo’s reward the unexpected, _glorious_ jolt inside. He clenches again and again, and Sam gapes at the sight, mouth open, breath escaping in tight gasps. Despite hot cheeks Frodo smirks—he’s definitely getting the hang of this. 

With the last release, though, one of the bumps makes good its name. It bobs hard against that place inside and an excruciatingly wonderful jolt flashes through him—maybe his reward, maybe to serve him right for teasing Sam. He takes hold and pushes inward once more, shivering through the exquisite ongoing torment of there and gone and there again.

But Sam had asked to see how he did this with his candles through the long years of their parting, and Frodo still remembers other ways he sought out what he had only ever truly wanted from Sam. He reaches to hold the gift in place and rises to his knees, thighs spread so wide that the wide, flat end rests on the bed. The bed-ropes creak to the steady rhythm of rise and fall, circle and hold that makes such good use of Sam’s gift to him.

‘I always knew it wasn’t you, of course,’ he manages breathlessly, ‘but at least like this, the bed moves too and jolts the candle way inside—so it _might_ not just be me working it. I—I let myself imagine riding you this way…’ Even now, it is still one of Frodo’s favourite positions for making love with his Sam.

‘We hadn’t never kissed nor touched, back then,’ Sam says hoarsely, ‘and you thought of me like that?’

‘All the time, Sam— _Sam!_ ’ The last is almost a shout. Another internal nudge hit unerringly in the gold, and Frodo is shaking with need. A hard clench and a sharp tug, lest this should end too soon, his thighs quivering with the effort.

Sam holds silent through his struggle—watching, Frodo knows, watching and himself growing ever harder for such intense study. 

‘I thought about you, right enough,’ he says, as soon as Frodo can safely ease up his control. ‘I had no idea, back then, of all the things we could do—the things we _do_ —together. And only when I used my hand could I ever let myself say your name.’ 

Another name hovers briefly, unspoken as always. Frodo can accept how thirteen hobbit children came to be, he simply prefers never to discuss the matter. The thought still stings, whetting his need, pushing him to reclaim what is _his_ now.

Frodo gasps, ‘Sam, I need—I want to—’ But before he can tell his need he is on his back once more, thighs spread now to encompass a kneeling Sam. A gust of warm breath floods across his belly.

‘No,’ says Sam, ‘ _I_ have to!’ 

A growl, low and possessive, and his mouth descends hot and wet around Frodo, one hand sweeping up to seize control from him— _of_ him. The other grasps the free end and tilts it upward in a shallow thrust. Frodo gasps at the abruptness of it, fingers clawing deliriously at the sheet.

So much for Sam keeping his hands to himself. They seem to be everywhere at once, calloused in all the right places—on all of _Frodo’s_ right places. Working his gift in and out, working Frodo toward the highest pitch of pleasure. Quite when Sam lost his breeches, Frodo neither knows nor cares, but the heat that rises from Sam’s skin mingles their separate scents as always with the oil’s own rich aroma.

Sam’s cheeks hollow to the rhythm of joyous sparks that skitter through Frodo as each hand-carved swell nudges at that special spot. He feels himself slipping perilously close to the edge again.

‘No more—not yet!’ he croaks, throat dry from the effort of breath. ‘Need _you_ , Sam, please?’

He barely gets out the words before Sam’s mouth lifts away—just one final, hasty kiss to the tip. Frodo shudders through the last of the delicious teasing as Sam eases out the fake to make way for the real. 

And then he’s there, Frodo’s legs high on his shoulders, lining himself up, sliding all the way home in one smooth motion—warm and heavy and _live_. Frodo’s breath chokes in his throat for the solid reality of his Sam. 

‘Watching was good, but this…’ says Sam, voice gravelly and low, ‘…this is better than anything!’

The want in his words heaps pleasure onto rising pleasure. It gathers fast at the base of Frodo’s spine, swirling, spreading, seizing him way inside. Soaring ever higher till it passes over and beyond all limits and breaks free in a flash of lightning, pulsing white between them. Sam’s thrusts surge faster, delve deeper until he too tumbles into ecstasy.

They breathe together though the aftermath, trading kisses and light touches—and love, so much love. Eventually Frodo tosses his gift back toward the bedside table knocking Pharinel’s candle—relegated forever to duties of mere illumination—to the floor.

He reaches for the damp cloth he stowed beneath the bed for just this moment, wipes himself off and nods toward the mess on Sam's shirt. ‘I think it might have been better if you had undressed too, before we started this,’ he says smugly, bringing up the folded-back covers and leaving the distinctly damp spot for Sam.

‘Aye, well, I knew just where _that_ would lead, and you promised me my present first!’ Sam retorts, stripping the shirt off and tossing it blindly in the vague direction of the laundry hamper. He joins Frodo lying on the bed, gathering stray limbs into the curve of his body and settling his head by Frodo’s on the pillow. 

‘Was that…’ Frodo hesitates. ‘Was it what you wanted, Sam?’ 

Sam hears his uncertainty and tugs his love fully into his arms, brushing a kiss to Frodo’s neck. ‘All and more,’ he says. ‘Best present ever—you always have been, love, and always will be.’

They are quiet for a while and Frodo thinks Sam may be slipping into sleep, but then he speaks, quite drowsy and utterly content.

‘You know,’ says Sam, ‘I think one of these nights, I might start another one. With different dimensions, like. For me.’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Tiriel/media/Afterwards_zpspw7mtyao.jpg.html)

**Author's Note:**

> In a different world, Frodo was [totally entranced](http://archiveofourown.org/556136) by Sam’s toes…
> 
> Merely Earth-bound pleasure-seekers who have no Sam to indulge them with his skills—his _carving_ skills—may find such exotic delights [here](http://www.woodwangworkshop.co.uk/dildos_22.html)


End file.
